


Charm Offensive

by Spoon888



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oral, Post War AU, Recreational Sex, Rough Sex, Sex As A Trust Building Exercise, Sticky, truce AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 05:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoon888/pseuds/Spoon888
Summary: It's mere months into an attempt at peace and Megatron's already getting 'friendly' with Optimus.Ratchet is more than ready to put a stop to the nonsense, but he too seems to have underestimated Megatron's... charms.





	Charm Offensive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RHplus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RHplus/gifts).

It wasn't yet midday, but a sheepish Optimus stood in front of Ratchet, looking decidedly worse for wear.

Ratchet turned his wrench over in his hand, looking his leader, and friend, up and down with no small level of judgement. "Where is your face mask?" He decided to start with the obvious.

Optimus's gaze dropped to the floor, and his mouth, now exposed to the harsh light of day and the even harsher judgement of his friend, turned down at the corners into a regretful frown. "I... seem to have misplaced it during the-"

"-During your treaty bound audience with Megatron." Ratchet finished for him, turning the wrench over faster now, his jaw rolling back and forth on its hinges as he fought to control his rapidly dwindling temper. "Yes, because talking is a situation that requires you remove it in the presence of a premium level threat."

"We are enemies no longer." Optimus protested helplessly. "And he... he offered me a drink."

Ratchet would have loved to know where Optimus's sense of self preservation had wandered off to between the Decepticon making a request for a ceasefire and now.

"So you somehow lost your battle-mask in the five minutes it takes to drink a cube?" Ratchet arched his brow, gaze once again wandering up and down Optimus's tall, scuffed, _dented_, ruffled frame. "And the dents?"

Optimus's fingers danced against his leg, but he had self control enough not to glance down at the finger shaped imprints on the outsides of his thighs, and the _insides_ of his thighs. _And_ on his hips, _and_ his upper arms -where someone with thick _black_ fingers seemed to have held him down. The longer Ratchet looked, the more there was.

Optimus's soft, abused-looking lips pursed together. "...What dents?"

Ratchet slammed his wrench down with a sharp clang. "You fragged him."

Optimus's optics sparked white with alarm.

"Ratchet!" He cried, utterly scandalised. Which was a _joke_, because it was obvious what he had been doing with Megatron during their three hour 'treaty mandated' meeting aboard the Nemesis. Ratchet had sat here, twiddling his thumbs and glancing at his chrono, fretting over the potential restart of hostilities and the possible capture of his friend and leader, and _Optimus_ had been off having a grand old time spreading his legs for Megatron's debauched pleasure.

"You either fragged him or had an all out brawl." Ratchet pointed to the smudges on Optimus's windshield -noting how one of the wipers was bent too- with his wrench. "Which was it?"

Optimus looked aside. Shifted his footing. Seemed to favour his left because he was sporting an obvious limp. Which answered enough.

"We- I was caught up in the moment." Optimus explained lamely, optics pale with misplaced guilt. "He just has this _presence_, and I-"

Presence? Oh sweet Primus. Ratchet shook his head, not wanting to hear anymore. "You never should have gone alone."

Optimus frowned. "I'm perfectly capable-"

"-Of getting yourself seduced and derailing vital peace talks, yes." Ratchet levelled him with what he hoped was his most reproachful glare. "Did you discuss _anything_?!"

Optimus opened his mouth.

"Anything that didn't revolve around him fragging you six ways to Cybertron?!"

Optimus's mouth snapped shut. His visible guilt doubled.

Ratchet rubbed a hand down his face and then held up a hand, forcing aside his irritation before he took it out on someone who didn't (entirely) deserve it. "It's fine." He sighed, suddenly _feeling_ millions of years old for once. "I don't blame you."

Optimus's broad shoulders relaxed.

Ratchet slapped his wrench down into his palm with a sharp smack, "It's that great grey bastard that I blame!"

Optimus's optics brightened in worry. "Ratchet, he-"

"He seduced you knowing full well it'd give him an advantage in the negotiations!" Ratchet exclaimed. He knew how Megatron's devious processor worked. Of course that monster would use any weapon in his arsenal, including his charisma, against Optimus.

And Optimus could be so, so susceptible to charm.

"We were discussing the possibility of the Aerialbots receiving manoeuvre training from his seekers!" Optimus cried, "It's hardly the sort of stuff that'd give him much of an advantage if the war restarted."

"That's probably what he wants you think!" Ratchet ranted. "You're not seeing him again until I know it's safe. Primus only knows what sort of viruses he's given you!"

Optimus stared. "I can't just not show up, Ratchet. Who is he going to negotiate with?! Himself?!"

"Maybe! If 'negotiating' with himself for once is going to lessen the likelihood of him laying his greasy paws on my patients!" Ratchet said, only he wasn't really talking about 'negotiations' at all. "You need to send someone with sense. Someone less vulnerable to his evil charms."

Ratchet didn't miss Optimus's melodramatic eye roll at both his choice of phrase and the implication that he was in any way vulnerable. "Who then? Prowl?"

"So he can frag him too?!" Ratchet pulled a face, but really he knew it was far more likely that Prowl would flip the negotiation table over and re-start the war than let a moron like Megatron seduce him. "No, _me_!"

"Ratchet." Optimus said solemnly. "I'm not sure-"

"I think I can handle Lord _Bucket Head_, thank you."

"You can't just walk into the Nemesis and declare yourself head of the negotiations." Optimus growled, standing straighter and using his most authoritative tone of voice. The one he used on Grimlock every day.

And the one that never worked on Grimlock, every day.

"Watch me." Ratchet lifted his chin.

"Please, old friend." Optimus seemed to realise pulling rank wasn't going to work, and switched to sad optics and a pleading tone instead. "See reason. I am fine. Megatron and I... we have been enemies for such a long time it seemed _necessary_ to let off a little tension. Build... trust. It didn't mean anything."

"I'll be the judge of that." Ratchet snapped, and picked up his schedule. "I have the afternoon free, so inform your new boyfriend that he's long overdue a checkup."

Optimus looked trapped. "He has his own medics."

"He has six self-taught morons." Ratchet corrected. "He hasn't seen a real medic in Primus-knows how many centuries, and you went and fragged him. He could be an incubus of viral disease, _crawling_ with bugs and spyware! You could be _dead_ in a day!"

Optimus didn't look as alarmed as Ratchet would have liked at a potential terminal diagnosis, but he did sigh with an air of defeat, dropping his gaze. "I'll ask him to come in," he agreed quietly.

"You _tell_ him to come in," Ratchet snarled. "If he misses his appointment and wastes my time, I'm hunting him down for sport. And tell him it'll be a vastly less comfortable experience if _I_ have to come to the Nemesis."

"Yes, Ratchet," Optimus murmured obediently.

"And sit your aft down." Ratchet muttered, eyeing Optimus's unsettled hip plating and tilted stance. "That _beast_ you lay with appears to have knocked a few things loose."

Optimus winced. "We... were a little rough." He admitted.

"It's Megatron," Ratchet snarled, casting unwanted mental images from his processor before they could imbed themselves in his memory recall, or worse, tempt his intimate array anymore than it already had been. "Did you think he was going to be _gentle_?!"

* * *

Ratchet did not know, nor did he care, what Optimus might have said to Megatron to convince the Decepticon to come up to the Ark and be seen to by an Autobot medic.

Ratchet was only surprised he came because it implied Megatron at least had the common sense to have realised that A) it was not worth angering Ratchet, B) he really _did_ need to see a professional, or C) both of the above.

Ratchet put all of the sharp objects out of reach -a hard task indeed in a repair bay full of a tools- lest Megatron become overwhelmed with his inherent homicidal tendencies in the middle of the examination. Ratchet was, after all, going to be poking around in some rather more _delicate_ places than the warrior was probably used to. He'd rather not spook Megatron and end up losing his head. Literally.

He braced himself for what he would find. He couldn't imagine mechs like Hook or Scrapper being particularly concerned with the intricate details of a frame. As long as a Decepticon could stand and aim a weapon, they were deemed 'fit for function'. So it was no wonder the more intelligent members of their fraction, Starscream and Soundwave, preferred to patch themselves up whenever possible.

Though that might have had something to do with distrusting most of their comrades...

So at precisely fourteen hundred hours, Megatron appeared in the doorway to Ratchet's repair bay, a huge grey pillar of bad Decepticon attitude blocking out the lights from the hallway. His shadow seemed to stretch across the bay, reaching towards Ratchet at its opposite end.

Refusing to be intimidated, Ratchet straightened and arranged his expression into something suitably unimpressed.

"You going to loiter in the doorway all day or come in?" Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest.

He heard a snort, and Megatron stepped in, the door sliding shut behind him with a quiet whisper of pressure. Megatron tilted his head back, and the expression Ratchet had feared was a menacing scowl, actually became a smirk when the light hit his face - it was easy, relaxed, amused.

Charming.

Ratchet, who'd braced himself for a difficult, unpleasant patient prepared to fight him over every necessary poke and prod, felt whiplashed at the sight of it. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought the Decepticon was looking forward to this appointment. Either he really was sick and knew it, or he imagined he'd be getting something out of it.

Ratchet made a mental note not to give it to him, whatever it was, and to make sure his hands were cold when he did his inspection. That'd be sure to wipe the smirk off the smug mech's face.

"I was waiting to be invited," Megatron's rasping, gravelly voice explained. Like most mechs his size, he had to duck to avoid the additional lower-hanging repair bay lights. Perhaps it was the darkness of his paint, but he seemed to take up a great deal more space than Ratchet would have expected.

"As a special _treat_ you're permitted entry today." Ratchet sneered sarcastically to make up for the unexpected appearance of Megatron's rarely seen manners. "But don't expect me to roll out the red carpet. Sit down."

Megatron's pedes carried him across the repair bay, and every heavy pedefall seemed to shake the decking beneath Ratchet's pedes. With access to his stats, Ratchet knew on paper the Decepticon weighed no more than Optimus. Either Optimus took a great deal of care with how he carried his bulkier frame around his fellows, or Megatron was a careless lumbering oaf.

He focused hard on his equipment table, ignoring the shift in air density as Megatron's huge frame passed close by, his older model and engines pumping out heat in the already tepid room.

"Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired." Megatron gave his unsolicited opinion, lowering himself onto the slab, settling back like he was perfectly at ease in the Ark's repair bay, surrounded by Ratchet and the thousands of ways he could hurt him. Arrogant bastard.

Ratchet picked up a hacksaw. Not because he would need it at all, but just because he wanted Megatron to know he owned one, and was willing to use it. _Any time_.

"So," he began, lip curled at the corner in barely restrained disgust. "Heard your meeting with Prime went well."

Megatron arched a brow, gaze focused on the ceiling so he hadn't even seen the hacksaw Ratchet was holding threateningly aloft. "Yes. It seems I underestimated what a great confidant Optimus could be."

Ratchet hesitated, his ire at Megatron using Optimus's informal first name battling with his urge to agree that yes, Optimus was a good friend. The greatest friend a mech could have. Patient, and kind, and honest and loyal. Ratchet couldn't help but respect anyone who took the time to notice that.

But Megatron had been more than just 'friendly' with Optimus.

"You fragged him." He said, punctuating his statement by pinging his finger against the metal of the hacksaw. Megatron finally looked towards him, and veered back in concern at the sight of the sharp tool so close to his delicate throat cables.

"Well, we-"

"I wasn't _asking_." Ratchet smiled nastily. "I spent two hours banging out the dents _you_ put into him. Rough, were we?"

Megatron looked caught between amusement and trepidation. But still, he answered with a cocky, "I assure you, it wasn't anything he didn't ask for. You know less about your Prime than you think if you're assuming otherwise."

The implication that Megatron might know and understand Optimus more than he did after one measly morning getting frisky with him across a negotiation table, boiled the fuel in Ratchet's lines.

He slammed his hacksaw down. "Open your panels. If you're going to prance about seducing _my_ patients I need to know what sort of diseases you're spreading around."

"Careful, medic," Megatron rumbled, but opened his diagnostic panel for Ratchet to jack into. "We may be at peace, but I don't take kindly to insults."

"Really," Ratchet said sweetly. "Because I thought you _loved_ constant ridicule. Why else would you keep Starscream around?"

Megatron's mouth pressed into a thin line, "He has his uses."

Ratchet could bet they were the same uses Optimus now seemed to have. He jammed his jack into Megatron none to gently, and watched the feedback load in. A lot of coding was out of date, slow running, but it was clean. Nothing contagious at least.

"When was the last time you were upgraded?" He muttered.

Megatron gave a casual shrug, which Ratchet feared might have implied 'never'.

He unplugged and tossed his readouts to the side, annoyed that he couldn't poke at Megatron for longer, or continue to accuse his intimate interest in Optimus as just a ploy to make the Prime sick and derail the negotiations, giving him the advantage. "Alright, you're done."

Megatron began to rise, and his joints, old and unkept, creaked like the hinges of an old door. Ratchet winced at the grinding, shrill noise, doing his best to ignore every line of coding that made him the great medic he was currently telling him to _deal_ with the noise. He wasn't going to waste any more time on Megatron. Even if it was just a quick grease up. Let him suffer.

Megatron stepped off the slab and to his pedes, knee creaking loudly.

"Alright!" Ratchet bellowed, finally snapping.

Megatron nearly fell off the slab in surprise, optics darting to the hacksaw he'd been threatened with like he thought he might be attacked.

"Get back on the slab." Ratchet told him with a hasty wave, turning and rifling through a drawer for oil and grease. "Before your limbs stiffen up and turn you into the planet's ugliest living statue. I won't have you falling apart on my watch. It'd ruin my reputation."

"You're too kind." Megatron murmured, settling down again.

"Don't mention it." Ratchet muttered.

"I'm honoured that the infamous Ratchet would deign to grace me with his-"

"I said-" Ratchet held the oil can up in front of Megatron's face threateningly, "_Don't_ mention it."

Sensing he'd pushed Ratchet to the limits of his patience, Megatron laid back obediently. Ratchet set to work, ordering Megatron to move his limbs one at a time and listening to the problem joints creak. Primus knew when he last saw to them.

Ratchet lifted one of Megatron's massive thighs, urging him to bend his leg at the knee so he could get the oil between the armour seams. The limb was as thick as his waist, and the armour so dense and heavy it had to be double the thickness of his own.

The observation made him feel rather warm under his own armour. He cleared his vocaliser.

"Is there something wrong?" Megatron asked innocently.

"Thought I told you to shut up." Ratchet muttered, hand lingering on Megatron's thigh as he studied the hip joint next.

He noted, with interest, optical ridges skyrocketing up his helm, that the black armour of Megatron's pelvis also acted as the trigger for his handgun altmode. He wondered if that was a happy coincidence or a deliberate, perverted choice on Megatron's part. He remembered all the times he'd witnessed the warlord transform and leap enthusiastically into Starscream's hands to be 'fired', and the one bizarre occasion their factions had worked together when Optimus had held Megatron and pulled his 'trigger'.

He wondered what that felt like.

He realised he'd become lost in his thoughts and was still touching Megatron a moment later and snatched his hand away as if the dull, warm armour had burned.

"Problem?" Megatron shifted, amour grinding and dragging against the slab.

"Stop squirming," Ratchet grumbled.

He oiled the hip joints quickly and messily and stepped back. Megatron sat up and extended his leg out, then drew it back, sighing in satisfaction when the action was smooth and soundless. "Much better."

Ratchet watched Megatron swing his legs over the edge of the slab to let them hang, testing them. Huge back servos griped the sides of the slab as Megatron looked over the edge at his kicking pedes, satisfied with their improved mobility. Ratchet found himself drawn to those hands. The blunt thick fingers, the huge palms. They looked heavy and clumsy, nothing like his own fast working servos. Those servos had taken lives he had failed to save.

And those same servos had grabbed handfuls of Optimus's aft, and slapped his thighs, and held down his wrists just that morning. He wondered if he'd turned them over and look at the palms, they'd still be marred with scuffs of blue, red, and white paint.

He tracked his gaze up, over Megatron's chest, under which a powerful engine rumbled away soothingly, a constant drum of sound that seemed to vibrate through the entire repair bay. Ratchet knew what it sounded like during battle, a roar of revs, a sound that cut across the battlefield and struck mechs right in the chest, vibrating their delicate spark in it's very casing.

A square chin and a devilish smirk greeted him next, and with a start, he realised Megatron's smouldering optics were staring back at him.

He hardened his gaze. "What?"

"I was just appreciating your skill-" Megatron's voice was like a purr. "-as a medic."

Ratchet was too old and cynical to be won over with such _basic_ flattery. He stepped back, hands on his hips in a no-nonsense stance. "Oh, were you now?"

Megatron hummed. "I've heard you're good with your hands."

"From who?" He sneered, hardly believing Megatron would be discussing him in any sense -personal or professional- with his mechs.

"Why Optimus, of course." Megatron's gaze darkened predatorily.

Ratchet's tank clenched. "Was there a particular reason you were discussing me during your 'negotiation'?" He growled, feeling warm but praying to Primus it didn't show. "Weighing up the options of your next conquest, were you?"

"Why?" Megatron's optics brightened. "Are you interested? I'd be happy to give you a demonstration. A taste of what had your Prime leaving my base in _such_ a good mood."

Ratchet could damn well bet he'd be happy to give out demonstrations. "It's a wonder you're not carrying any viruses, given your apparent penchant for spiking anything that comes your way."

"Only those stunning enough to catch my optic." Megatron purred.

Ratchet's return quip died in his throat, his vocaliser emitting a burst of static in his surprise. "You-!" He stopped himself from spitting an insult, his cheeks burning. "You really think you can win me over, don't you?"

"I 'think' I already have. At any rate, I don't believe in lost causes." Megatron smirked, and Ratchet wondered back to how many chances Megatron had given treacherous underlings in the past.

"Have you ever considered you might just be stupid?"

Megatron ignored him, extending a servo and taking Ratchet's in one of his huge palms, the plating warm and powerful. His processor blipped, and he somehow couldn't find the command to yank himself out of Megatron's grip. He swallowed, watching. Megatron's hand moved up his forearm, stroking, occasionally gripping his elbow and pulling him closer. In the back of his mind, Ratchet knew this was probably how poor Optimus was dragged in- swept up in Megatron's seductive tide like a piece of driftwood.

He was stood over Megatron now, glaring down at the huge sprawled frame humming with untapped power. Ratchet had been lucky to have never been on the receiving end of Megatron's strength before in battle. That was a privilege few knew.

"I can be gentle." Megatron coaxed, as if that was the problem here. "I've laid with seekers before. As a medic, I'm sure you know first hand how sensitive _they_ can be."

"I'm not a seeker." Ratchet hissed through his teeth, tensing when Megatron guided his hand to his hip, letting it soak up the warmth of the larger mech's frame. His finger tips found the seams in his armour and traced them curiously, distractedly.

"No, but you're hardly a brawler either," Megatron, bravely, flicked a finger against his armour, pinging it. Ratchet's scowl darkened. As did his cheeks. "I can't expect you to handle _everything_ I did to your Prime."

Ratchet laughed hysterically, "You'd be surprised by what I could handle."

"Oh, would I?

"You _sure would_." Ratchet snarled with manic aggressive enthusiasm.

Megatron watched him with this smouldering gaze. "Will I have to take your word for it?" He turned a leg out a little, and Ratchet was drawn to the space between those broad thighs, to the matte black of his pelvis and codpiece.

Ratchet bit down on his glossa.

He was not about to let himself be seduced by fragging Megatron.

No matter how... large and... _impressive_ the frame laid out before him was.

"You Autobots put too much stock in interfacing." Megatron's hand wandered down his forearm again, fingers folding over his servo, a thumb against his palm. "Like regular consensual intimacy is somehow unclean, or decadent."

"Are you calling us prudes?" Ratchet tried not to be distracted the slide of Megatron's thumb drawing circles on his palm. How such a small touch could feel so intimate...

"I'm certainly not calling you adventurous." There was a hint of a smile to Megatron's lips.

"Fuck you." Ratchet spat the human curse as though it was part of his everyday vernacular.

"Yes," Megatron agreed in that suave, smug voice of his. "Fuck me, indeed."

Ratchet's spark thu-dunked in it's chamber, his fingers twitching at his sides.

A sensible voice in the back of his head said he was just doing exactly what Megatron wanted him to do. That he was allowing himself to be provoked into it. Which was arguably worse than Optimus getting seduced.

Ratchet disregarded the sensible voice because it clearly belonged to a coward that couldn't appreciate that he had Megatron _right here_, at his mercy and all greased up in his repair bay.

Fine. If Megatron wasn't going to leap up and pounce on him as expected of any decent Decepticon, he was just going to have to do the pouncing himself.

With a burst of courage, Ratchet braced two hands against the slab and boosted himself up, swinging a leg over Megatron's huge hips to straddle him.

"Let's do this," he announced in a voice stronger than he felt. "Preferably _before_ I rust."

Megatron looked shocked.

Ratchet's confidence skyrocketed.

"What?" He made himself comfortable across the larger mech's warm lap, rather enjoying the sight of Megatron beneath him. "If I'm going to go along with your stupid 'seduction-as-a-team-building-activity' scheme, you'd better make it worth my while, _casanova_. Or else."

Megatron's brow rose. His hands lifted to Ratchet's thighs, warm palms cupping his armour. "Or else, what?"

Ratchet flicked the red button on Megatron's abdomen playfully. "Or else... I might not let it happen again."

The insinuation of there being repeat encounters was all it took. In an instant Megatron was upright, shocking Ratchet with a kiss. He growled and went to push the Decepticon off, ready with an insult about sea-weed breath -but Megatron tasted like warm oil and iron, his dexterous tongue pushing against Ratchet's as it swept and pressed into his mouth. Ratchet's growl lost it's menace and soon sounded more like a whine.

Megatron's engine revved, and Ratchet swore he could feel the vibration of it all the way to his core. His valve clenched on nothing, dampening beneath it's panel, callipers flexing and mesh softening.

Megatron rolled them next, and Ratchet's back hit the slab with a clunk, the breath shunted from his vents. Megatron's mouth drew away from his and left him panting at the ceiling, arching his back and extending his neck when that warm mouth pressed kisses all down his throat cabling, licking and sucking over sensitive spots Ratchet would have expected only a lover he'd been with before to have known about.

"Hnh!" He moaned wordlessly, squirming into the surprisingly learned ministrations.

Megatron kept going down, over his chest and belly, skimming over his pelvis, until Ratchet's breath caught when a tongue dragged wetly across his modesty panel, probing at the seams.

"Open wide." Megatron's deep gravelly voice breathed harshly against a trembling inner thigh.

Ratchet obeyed, and cried out in surprise when the press of a tongue to his anterior node was joined by the squeeze of strong fingers on his thighs. He locked his legs around Megatron's distinctly bucket-shaped head, giving back as good as he got as the tongue didn't bother to tease his folds, and instead _thrust_ in and out of him with force enough it felt like he was being activity fragged. He undulated down into the sensation, riding Megatron's face, delighting in the nudge of his big nose against his node.

He heard metal scrape and felt fingers readjust their harsh grip on his thighs, and knew he'd be _covered_ with black telling finger prints smeared across his bright paint -just as Optimus had been- long before this ended. The tongue swirled and lips latched onto his node and sucked before Megatron withdrew with one last lick to make progress back up his frame again.

Ratchet felt trapped and overheated when the big silver frame settled over him. Wet lips fell to his chin, trailed along his jaw, then closed over his mouth in another kiss, far wetter and sloppier than the first. He could taste himself, saline and brackishness on Megatron's tongue when it swept across his bottom lip and wormed it's way back into his mouth, stealing his air and numbing his head.

He moaned when one big hand adjusted him easily, tipping his hips and pushing his legs out. The joints strained at the stretch but it was all to accommodate Megatron's generous hips when they fell between them. Ratchet felt the hard shaft of Megatron's spike drag against his inner thigh, and he shuddered uncontrollably, his valve clenched tight in anticipation.

It had been a while...

The tip pressed to his entrance, and it was large and blunt. Ratchet tried to press his thighs shut out of instinct, but Megatron held him open and rocked himself against his opening. Ratchet rolled his head back, evening out his breathing to prepare himself. It had been a while, and Megatron was big.

But the brute proved himself more than a careless pleasure seeking hedonist. And pulled back, now realising what Ratchet himself needed when he brought a finger to his entrance first and pushed it in. It was thick, but easy and dexterous. Ratchet sighed as it stroked his inner walls, head falling back to the slab with a clunk.

"You appear rather tight." Megatron commented bemusedly, and it was clear he wasn't just talking about Ratchet's _physical_ condition. "Fortunately for you-" he curled his finder and pushed it in and out. "-I'm here to loosen you up."

"Like you -'_loosened_' Optimus?" Ratchet couldn't help himself.

The finger drew back and _thrust_ in to the knuckle. Ratchet's optics brightened. "Oof!"

"Yes," Megatron agreed, smirk smug and very, _very_ punch-able. Ratchet would have swung one at his head, but he was too busy using his hands to cling helplessly to the larger mech's big squared shoulders.

Fingers worked him expertly till he was slick and open and moaning. Then that spike was kissing at his entrance again, rounded tip damp and hot when it brushed sensitive mesh. And then-

"Holy-"

Megatron pressed into him in one smooth stroke, lifting a thigh out of the way to sink himself even deeper. Ratchet was blinded by pleasure, by the stroke of Megatron's generous, girthy spike spreading open the plush lining of his valve and rubbing up against all the right sensors.

The slab wasn't built for such heavy duty activity, and it swayed on it's legs as Megatron set up a driving pace, the legs creaking much like Megatron's own outdated knee-joints had before.

Being driven repeatedly into the hard slab, Ratchet cursed himself for making the larger mech so much more agile now. Though he wasn't sure how much of this was Megatron's typical love-making, and how much was a provoked mech trying to make a point.

The point had been thoroughly made.

He overloaded with a shout when Megatron decided to _bite_ his neck. One leg kicked out shamelessly, the other tightened where it had locked around Megatron's wide waist. Megatron growled into his neck cables, his hot breath huffing out of his distinctive nose and washing over his helm.

Megatron tensed and Ratchet felt the larger mech's armour panels lock tight where they were pressed against his own, his limbs stiff and spike holding deep.

Megatron released with a exhausted sounding huff, frame beginning to relax with every warm pulse of him emptying into Ratchet's spent frame, softening, and purring, fingers gentling where they gripped him.

They collapsed into a heap of metal, legs intertwined and cheeks flush together, their weak limbs hanging over the edge of the slab.

Ratchet breathed, waiting for his vision to return, his processor to start up again.

He shifted, finding himself trapped and far too close to Megatron for his own comfort. He winced in disgust and slapped Megatron's big thigh.

Megatron grunted.

"You're _crushing_ me." Ratchet snarled.

Megatron, a gentleman to his core, dropped the rest of his weight to Ratchet's poor frame and showed him what 'crushing' _really_ felt like.

"Ack-!"

* * *

"Megatron looked well," Optimus commented that evening.

Ratchet, who had spent the rest of his afternoon frantically destroying the evidence of what had occurred between himself and their (former) enemy leader not only from his repair bay, but his own frame too, hid behind his evening refuel and grunted in what he hoped was a convincingly dismissive tone.

"I take it he was clean?" Optimus pressed.

Ratchet made an even vaguer noise.

"He said your examination was very... thorough." Optimus continued in a knowing voice, without a _hint_ of tact.

Ratchet dropped his cube with a thunk to glare. "_You're_ hardly one to talk."

"Still think you'd be better suited for the negotiations?" Optimus was impossibly smug. And it didn't at all suit a supposedly noble Prime.

"Found your _face mask_ yet?" Ratchet bit back.

Optimus's smirk fell to a frown in a flash, and Ratchet felt worlds better.


End file.
